Right now Isabella Flores should have been acting like the other two clients: mellow or half-asleep and lounging in the surgical chair, mindlessly watching TV or listening to music as they waited for their transfusion to begin. Instead, she was frantic, pacing rapidly back and forth.

Dawson said, “She’s refusing the transfusion until she speaks to the man in charge—the one who runs the whole operation. The gangster, not the doctor.”

“The gangster?”

“Her words.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s an actress and she’s crazy?” Dawson sighed as she took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “How would you like to handle this?”

“I’ll talk to her.”

Dawson blinked in surprise. “You never talk to the clients.”

“This is her first time getting a transfusion. It’s probably just nerves.”

“Or maybe she’s just another miserable narcissist who thinks the world revolves around her.”

“There’s that.”

Dawson shook her head. “Enjoy.”

The click of Maya’s heels faded behind him as Sebastian took a seat in front of the console. Facing him was one-way glass looking into Isabella Flores’s room. It took him a moment to find the switch for the microphone. He didn’t worry about disguising his voice; the mike already did that.

“Good morning, Miss Flores.”

Isabella Flores started at his voice. She looked up at the ceiling speaker directly above her.

“Can you hear me okay?” Sebastian asked. “Do I need to turn up the volume?”

The woman stepped directly in front of the one-way and straightened and squared her shoulders, looking like she was about to climb inside a boxing ring and knock someone out with one punch. Sebastian caught a whiff of fear behind her pose—the fear of being a onetime insanely popular item now kicked to the discount aisle, reduced for quick clearance.

“Tell me what’s troubling you,” Sebastian said.

“Are you the person in charge?”

“What’s the problem, Miss Flores?”

“How dare you lock me inside here like a prisoner? Do you know who I am? How much I paid?” She glared at the one-way mirror—at him—demanding an answer.

Sebastian had to shut down her attitude right now. He picked up the small microphone and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I’ve got this recurring dream,” he told her. “It always starts out with me sitting at the head of this really fancy banquet table, right? All the food and booze I could possibly want, and there are—”

“I don’t give a shit about your dream. What I want is—”

“What you want, Miss Flores, is immaterial. What I want is all that matters, and what I want is for you to stop acting like a spoiled brat and to show some manners. A woman such as yourself should know better.” Sebastian paused, pleased when he saw some fight go out of her eyes—not a lot, just some. “Now, I was in the middle of telling you a story. An important story. May I continue?”

She didn’t answer—although she clearly wanted to, her nostrils flaring, Sebastian watching as she swallowed her words. Sebastian continued.